The light that comes from under the door, flooding the linoleum, teases shadows as to what is going on the other side. All manner of mystery, intrigue and imagination can be given over to it, ‘Did you hear a voice’, ‘Who’s there, do we know them’, and ‘What the hell are they doing?’, punch about the head as possibilities, potential story lines. Plato comes to mind, with his first year under grade theory of caves, shadows and forms that boggle the noodle in ones head, endlessly repeated through centuries. ‘Yeah’, you tell yourself, maybe that’s the point, just seeing the ephemeral, and who knows what’s really there.

Being of course outside of knowing what is actually on the other side, illicit’s all manner of questions. In reality, things change, a career is altered, new geometries and geographies are discovered, old ones remembered. That is the blood beauty of it all, noting that something is on the other side, just itching to turn the handle and waltz together through the door to discover what’s just obscured by a simple panel of wood. There are all manner of possibilities, frequent flyer miles to be gained, mountain ranges to examine from great heights. Touching down, a new landscape is poured over, instruction sets and protocols to memorize.

Yet, before the handle can be turned and the door opened together, both parties are unanimous within the choice. Lucretius understood, plotting the seasons, the rhythm with which we dance beneath the sun, groan within the night. Smiles, along with a laughter of knowing that the shadows are ourselves, waiting for us to join them within the future, composed, created, and ready.